Sonnet XI.

Like to a ship that storms urge on its course, By its own trials our soul is surer made. The very things that make the voyage worse Do make it better; its peril is its aid. And, as the storm drives from the storm, our heart Within the peril disimperilled grows; A port is near the more from port we part— The port whereto our driven direction goes. If we reap knowledge to cross-profit, this From storms we learn, when the storm’s height doth drive— That the black presence of its violence is The pushing promise of near far blue skies. Learn we but how to have the pilot-skill, And the storm’s very might shall mate our will.